Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (9 page)

The party was now in full swing. I nibbled on some delicious baked cheese biscuits. Then Angelina joined us and, in the spirit of the day, put her radio on the table and switched on some pastoral music.

“A wondrous device,” Bilboa said.

“Don’t you use radios?”

“Happily, no. The simple, natural life is sacred to us. We left all the machines behind when we sealed and abandoned the vessels that brought us here. Along with other evils like money, property tax, income tax, guns and goatmobiles—or so legend has it. Though I know not the meaning of these words.”

“You’re better off without them. So . . . no machines, music players, radios, interstellar communications machines?”

Casually mentioned . . .

“None of those.” My spirits fell. Still, the city had machines—if TV and ground-to-air missiles counted.

I waited until we had knocked back a few more mugs of Old Relaxing Juice before I worked the conversation around to more serious matters.

“Dear friend Bilboa, I so welcome your many kindnesses. But, at the risk of offending you who offers such hospitality and largesse, I must return to a topic of great importance to me. Those who live in the walled city . . .”

He sighed tremulously and his smile vanished as I made my pitch.

“Though we approached them in peace they used a weapon in an attempt to destroy us. For our own protection I must know who they are and why they fired on us. We have an expression: know your enemy. I must know more about these people for our own protection.”

The day appeared to darken and the warmth was gone from the air.

“You are correct and I was wrong to keep this knowledge from you. It has been written that one black day our peaceful and loving existence—alone on this friendly planet—was broken by the thunder of their great ships landing. Like us they came here seeking escape and the solitude to pursue their own philosophy and ends.”

His eyes sparkled and he shook his fist at the defenseless sky. “While we are one with nature, they attack it with foul machines and great stinks. They attempted to force us to join them in their evil beliefs. We could only flee in horror. In the end they tired of attempting to convert us to their Church of the Vengeful God and retired behind their city walls.”

“Then you no longer have any contact with them?”

Bilboa sighed again, most unhappily, and shook his gray head.

“Would that were so. Perhaps we are weak, but we welcome their medicines that cure us of illness.”

“But these Vengefulers don’t sound like the type to indulge in generosity . . .”

“They are not! We pay a high price! Not in this money thing you talk of, but in toil and labor in exchange for these vital needs.”

Getting close now! “And that is . . . ?”

“Flowers.”

That was a stopper. Interstellar flower power? Religious nutcases with a weakness for blooming buds? I managed to gasp out a query.

“But . . . I mean what . . . why flowers?”

“When their machines break down they must be repaired, replaced. Or so it has been explained to me although I know not the details.”

This was it. Interstellar contact for replacement and repairs.

“Do you know what they do with these flowers?” I asked humbly.

“By some devious means they turn the blooms into perfume. It has been said that the flowers of Floradora make a perfume of such beauty that it is prized throughout the galaxy.”

“You wouldn’t know how this perfume of delight reaches said galaxy?”

“They summon spacers who bring things they require in exchange.”

Bull’s-eye! Contact could be made!

I strolled over with the jug and refilled Angelina’s mug with the potent Floradora fruit punch. She smiled her thanks. I bent close.

“Good news from the local capo. They trade flowers with the city people in exchange for medicine.”

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “How very nice for them. And you have a reason for telling me this?”

“Indeed. The war-happy city citizens turn the flowers into perfume—which is picked up by off-planet traders . . .”

“Contact!” she said, clapping her hands with pleasure. She glanced over my shoulder at the lowering sun. “Time to go back to the ship and report the good news.”

“I’ll bid our good-byes and start the pigs and people moving.”

“And I’ll fix a picnic basket for Kirpal and Stramm. I hope they don’t mind vegetarian food.”

“Is it? I never noticed.”

“It was so good it didn’t matter. You’ll have plenty steaks on the ship.”

I saw Bilboa carrying out a fresh jug and joined him for a stirrup cup. We thudded mugs.

“Fine as this day was—new friends and fine food—all good things must end,” I said. His face dropped.

“We have much to talk of, new friend Jim.”

“We do indeed, fine friend Bilboa, but it will have to wait until another day.”

“Can we say tomorrow? You must see our dairy!”

“First thing in the morning. Your milk and butter—and cheese—are more than excellent.”

“Warm thanks! Until the morning then.”

The party was slowly breaking up. Tables were being cleared, good-byes rang out and reboarding began. Stomachs full, the swine trotted happily back to their pens. So did the farmers—though not to their stys. A number of hearty handclasps later we waved our good-byes and rejoined the others. I rolled in the ramp and sealed the port. By reflex—since I didn’t think the Floradorans meant us any harm. In the dining room I found the ship’s crew tucking into the lavish spread.

“Farm fresh and delicious!” Kirpal sounded like a TV commercial. Stramm wasted no time on talk only nodded and crunched. I joined them in some fruit punch until they were sated.

“The good news is that the city dwellers, who are followers of a cult religion called the Church of the Vengeful God, have interstellar communication.”

I nodded agreement with their happy cries.

“That’s the good news. The bad news is that they may take some persuading, for they are a surly and bigoted lot—as their surface-to-air missile proved.”

Kirpal rubbed his jaw and frowned. “Church of the Vengeful God? Never heard of them.”

“No reason you should have. There were a great number of nutcase religions during the breakdown years.” I pointed to the communicator unit on the wall. “Does that connect to the ship’s central computer?”

“Of course—by law. A mini mainframe with almost unlimited memory banks.”

I put the communicator on the table and the captain ran a Gurgle search. “There it is.” I leaned close and read—

CHURCH OF THE VENGEFUL GOD

During the Breakdown Years on Earth (or Dirt), thought to be the original planet that was home to mankind, there were a number of remarkable, and distasteful, religions that sprang up. All of them died out—though it is possible that some of them spread to other of the colonized planets.

The Vengefulers, as this odd religion was called, had a rather obnoxious philosophy. They believed that God was really the Devil—having displaced the true God and chained him in Hell. Only by practicing a rigid discipline could they satisfy the Devil-God and convince him to finally release God from Hell so they could join him in heaven. To this end they mortified the flesh, since they believed it to be intrinsically evil, and forewent all pleasures and luxuries. They also believed that the rest of mankind was jealous of them and
waged eternal war against them. To say that they were extremely paranoid understates the case.

It is reported that this cult died out when they fled to other planets to escape what they saw was an eternal holy war.

Many centuries have passed since the last report that they had been seen.

However, there is still an intergalactic warning out not to approach them or attempt any contact.

“Nice people,” Kirpal said, curling his lip with distaste.

“I can handle them,” I said briskly.

With more surety than I really felt. Yet I must do it—or resign myself to a vegetarian life with plenty of flowers. But I needed more information about the city. And I knew where to find it.

“Captain Singh. A question, please. When we were above the city, and they attacked us with their missile, we had a fine picture on the screen of everything that happened. Was that image recorded?”

“Of course. Automatically.”

“Wonderful! Can you print out some good pictures of the city?”

“Of course.”

“Then, after you eat, will you make some blow-up prints? Know your enemy and all that.”

“Good as done.”

It had been a long and busy day and it appeared that everyone had retired early. But I had too much to think about. I dug into the bar supplies, which I had carefully restocked for any emergency before we left. I found a bottle of Old Cerebellum
Tickler and poured a tall one with plenty of ice. With Mozart playing softly in the background I pulled over the transcribing screen and a stylo.

After many minutes and a number of glugs it remained infuriatingly blank.

“Come on, Jim, put the thinking cap on. You are the only one—you ingenious old Rat—who can find a way out of this mess. Outwit the Devil-Gooders, contact the galaxy, convince the porcuswiners that they would all be very happy remaining here. That done you can forget all about Mechanistria and go home for some peace and quiet.”

It sounded wonderful.

Now how would I go about doing just that?

Why, by remembering the old diGrizian axiom: turn everything on its head. All too often strong beliefs revealed a flaw. A perceived strength would often contain an inherent weakness.

So what were these pseudoreligious nutcases really good at? Ask a question, get an answer.

Paranoia.

They thought everyone hated them.

Therefore I must make that come true! And extract great pleasure in doing so.

I finished my drink, patted my lips dry, turned off the lights and, fatigued yet happy, went to bed.

It is understandable but inconvenient that there are no portholes in deep spacers. Yawning myself awake I switched an outside image to the screen. Another bright and sunny day in what I hoped would soon be a porcine paradise. How I
would treasure the sight of the last retreating hams on the hoof. I could not help but whistle cheerfully.

“Someone is all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning,” Angelina said, covering a yawn.

“I’m a genius—and I am the first one to admit it!”

“Not before I’ve had my coffee. Desist.”

I was spreading a last piece of toast with marmalade when Angelina emerged. Coiffed and glowing with health—in a fetching outfit I had never seen before. Not that I would have remembered if I had.

“I’ve been invited by the Floradoran’s Women’s League to a sewing bee.”

“Sounds delightful.” Sounded like death warmed over. “Do you know what this bucolic ritual is?”

“No, but I’m sure they will tell me.”

As she said this I felt a surge of inspiration. Lights flashed and bells rang.

“I imagine it has to do with sewing clothes, since without machines I don’t think there are any factories here. And, if that is what it is, why, you and the ladies will be of immense help in our leaving this planet.”

She clapped her hands and laughed aloud.

“Has my genius elaborated an ingenuous plan to leave this planet?”

“Your genius has done just that!” I said as I buffed my fingernails on my shirt front, then blew upon them. “Complete with a new and powerful bureaucratic establishment with galaxy-wide authority.”

“And the name of this newly created omnipotent organization?”

I drew myself up, took a brace and proudly said—

“The Intergalactic Department of Religious Control.”

“You’re serious?”

“Never more so. In my position of authority as First Galactic Inspector I will investigate a reported violation of the Galactic Religious Code.”

“And what may I ask is that?”

“I don’t know yet, but it’s going to be a humdinger. But—first things first. We must have a design for my uniform for you to take to your ladies’ sewing circle.”

She frowned at the tiny watch set under her pinky fingernail. “Will you be long?”

“Hard to tell. Why don’t you join your sisterhood and find out more about their sewing skills. I’ll join you as soon as I have completed the design.”

I was humming with creative ardor as I signed onto the terminal and brought up a surfeit of splendor. My, how mankind does love its military glory!

Uniforms of every color and gaudy display raced across the screen. When I had picked out the most splendid and eye-dazzling, I saved them in a file of martial magnificence. A quick search through the computer index found a design program that let me combine elements of the most stunning. When it was complete I hit print and a large and glaringly colorful picture emerged. I held it up at arm’s length and marveled.